Suddenly, just as a squat little Costavezan, with a gayly colored serape wrapped round his dirty white clothes, raised an arm to hurl another stone, the word came.
“Charge!”
If an earthquake had suddenly struck that crowd, they could not have scattered more precipitately. Before the onrush of the Americans they parted like a flock of sheep when an angry collie runs through them. With shrieks and yells and imprecations, they fled right and left, many of them bearing what would later become very promising black eyes.
“Charge!” Before the onrush of the Americans they parted like a flock of sheep.
All at once, just in front of Ned, there came a flash. He realized instantly what it was—a knife! With a rapid up-sweep of his elbow, more instinctive than anything else, he met the descending arm of the man who wielded it.
As the two arms clashed together the knife went flying out of its owner’s hand and fell with a steely ring at the other side of the street. As it did so the Dreadnought Boy’s fist shot out and collided with the Costavezan’s face with a “squdgy” sound. The fellow was lifted clean off his feet by the blow, and came down to the ground after twirling once round completely. As he fell he collapsed in a senseless heap.
“A sleep punch!” shouted Gifford, whose face was cut in a dozen places.
What the mob in its fury might next have attempted will never be known, for at that moment Gifford’s friends, who had become separated from him before the row started, hove in sight. With a shout they charged, as had the boys just before, at the sight of the white uniforms in the midst of a hostile crowd. It was the end. With shouts of hate and fury, but prudently taking to their heels nevertheless, the mob scattered.
“How did it all happen?” asked Ned, as Gifford began mopping his face. Of the mob only a few curious small boys remained.